


lovebites

by oelc, Soulsisterblondzilla



Category: DnD Homebrew, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 08:27:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11271720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oelc/pseuds/oelc, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soulsisterblondzilla/pseuds/Soulsisterblondzilla
Summary: oc fics set in mel's homebrewed dnd world featuring noam and shirin (nonchronological)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written by mel, edited by hester

Father’s face was graced with that rare promise of a smile, a hint that he was hiding something pleasant under otherwise ordinary words, and Noamlit up when he spoke;

“Would you pick up some things from the surface for me?” He leaned over and slipped some coins into his eagerly awaiting hand.

Noam moved around the farm like a mad thing, putting his shoes on the wrong feet and shoving his hat onto his head and stumbling out of the door, rushing towards the pulley system that would take him to surface.

The market was even bigger than it had been last year. Countless stalls filled with spices, fish, velvet, trinkets and things that Noam didn’t even recognise.

There was something sweet on one of the stalls, with a loud seller and perfume so strong Noam immediately sneezed with a startled _squeak._ He approached slowly, eyes wide – he was young, but already reached the height of the rest of the dwarves, and he was thankful this one recognised him from his last trip to the surface.

“Hey kid,” the dwarven woman leaned forward against the market stall, light curls bobbing as she moved, red painted lips smirking upwards at the sight of him, “Long time no see. How’re you?”

He grinned and blushed all at once, jamming his hat further down onto his head as he mumbled, “I’m very good, thank you. It’s my birthday.”

She chuckled, “Oh, really? Happy birthday, little one. How old are you today?”

“Twelve!”

She whistled, “Look at _you,_ growing up. I tell you what, I’ll give you something special to celebrate.”

She ducked under the market table so fast Noam blinked in confusion – had she fallen under? Should he help her? But she appeared again just as quickly, a slice of the most delicately decorated, light and fluffy looking cake Noam had ever _seen._ It had a single raspberry on top, surrounded by delicate piping of white cream, a deep chocolate sponge… Noam’s mouth watered at the sight.

“How does this look to you?”

Noam just nodded. He didn’t think he could manage a whole sentence. She chuckled and delicately wrapped it up, topping it with a bow that she seemed to procure magically from the air. Noam took it gleefully, narrowly avoiding dropping it as he dug through his pockets to get the coins his father gave him – but the woman held up her hand;

“A birthday treat! Seeing as I only see you once a year, anyway.”

Noam’s mouth dropped open for a moment, “…Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you…” he slowly backed away, cake clutched in his hands, repeating the same words over and over.

He found his favourite spot on the hill, sitting at the base of an ancient twisting tree that blocked most of the sun from his skin. The grass was thick here, and the wind tried to pick up his hat over and over again and it made him laugh. He watched the other children play as he took a huge bite out of the cake, wondering if he could pluck up the courage to ask if he could join in this year.

 

* * *

 

It was raining. The clouds were thick, but Noam knew they would part soon. His skin tingled expectantly, hair standing on end. There was a familiar dark feeling clouding his chest and making it hard not to panic… He tried counting again. That was about the only thing that kept him occupied while he waited.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…_

Was it his birthday? It _was_ his birthday. He’d forgotten in the mania of running from the city when he’d realised the transformation was coming soon. Huh. How old was he again? He could never remember…

The clouds almost parted. His stomach twisted. He began counting again.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5…_

He was on a hill again, come to think of it. Like the one he used to sit on when his father was still around, when they lived and worked with the dwarves and people still looked happy to see him when he ran by.

The rain came down in sheets now though, wetting his clothes through, plastering his hair to the top of his head. He’d have to get rid of them soon, in any case.

It wouldn’t be long now.

_1, 2, 3…_

“There you are.”

Noam near enough leapt out of his skin. He scrambled backwards, eyes wide, trying to see through the rain, _“Shirin?_ Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” Shirin’s voice was surprisingly grumpy, and his face was a funny – and also a pretty – picture when Noam finally found him plodding up the hill towards him, shaking water off of his clothes despite already being soaked through, “I’ll probably catch a cold, you know.”

Noam stared at Shirin. The panic was _definitely_ setting in now, his chest shuddering, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Shirin paused, feet dragging to a stop, his eyes flicking him up and down a moment, “P-P-P-“ he shook his head, letting out a short curse before trying again, “…Please don’t run again.”

Noam felt his hand ball into fists. He felt like a child again, hiding amongst the branches of an ancient tree, too scared to run towards what he really wanted.

“I could hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I almost did.”

“But you _didn’t,”_ Shirin ran a hand through his hair irritably and Noam looked down at the floor, “I thought we were over this, Noam. We’ve done this before. You don’t _need_ to run.”

“But I _should-”_

 _“No,_ you – do I need to spell it out for you?”

Noam looked up at him, expression blank. Shirin slowly shook his head, lifted a foot – and then paused.

“Can I come closer?”

“A step.”

“I don’t really want to shout this, Noam,” Shirin spoke irritably, but he was blushing.

It was a sight that was steadily becoming familiar to Noam– it meant something good, right? - and he felt his shoulders relax just a little bit.

“Three steps, then…”

Shirin rolled his eyes and took the three largest steps Noam had ever seen. Noam forced himself to stand his ground – he’d been this close to Shirin before a transformation before, after all… Maybe too close. Shirin sat on the soaked grass a few feet away from him, grimacing at the wet before turning back to Noam with a soft sigh.

“I…” rain streamed down his face like hundreds of tiny raging rivers, “Don’t want you to start running away every time you transform.”

Noam flinched, “For the experiments?”

 _“No,_ I -j-just…” he swallowed, “Think you’re s-safer with m- _me.”_

Noam frowned, “But _you’re_ not.”

 _“I’m_ fine,” Shirin said, waving a hand nonchalantly, “Look, I just don’t want you thinking this is something you should be running away from.”

“Why? It is.”

“It doesn’t _have_ to be, I-” he cut himself off and bowed his head, that blushing coming through again, easing the knot of tension in Noam’s chest, “I just, I c- _care_ about you. And I d-don’t think running off every time this happens is exactly the healthiest thing in the world to do.”

Noam barely heard the end of the doctor’s sentence. He was frowning so hard his eyebrows had collided together and might never be able to be pulled apart.

“You _care_ about me?”

“Of course I do,” he answered so abruptly, so _clearly,_ that Noam almost believed it.

Almost.

But somehow, it was enough to keep him on the hill all the way up until the clouds finally broke above them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written by hester

Noam knows the second his fingers skim over the bullets. They come off of the metal irritated in the way only silver causes – barely a touch and already tiny blisters are materializing on his fingertips. He’d been looking for the spare paints Shirin told him he kept in drawers here and there, utterly unprepared for his worries about the doctor’s fears regarding his… _issue_ to be confirmed.

Yet there they are, glinting innocently up at Noam.

His breath catches in his throat. He _wanted_ Shirin to take precautions, to make sure he was safe – why then did his chest feel so tight?

“Noam?”

Shirin’s voice rings clear through the lab. He startles, gathering the bullets in his hands by reflex. The jolt of pain helps him focus and he’s thankful for it when his doctor pops through the door, arms laden with brushes and jars of paint. There’s a smear of something blue on his cheek.

“There you are!” Shirin exclaims, “I found these behind a pile of boxes – I knew they were around _somewhere;_ now you can finish the-“

He frowns, cutting himself off. Something in Noam’s expression must be giving him away. Shirin’s eyes snap to the subtle shaking of his arms, the dresser he’s standing in front of, the hunted look on his face. He might as well have accused the doctor of shooting him right there and then for all the subtlety managed in that moment.

So Shirin sets down the supplies and hurries over, reaching to touch him, explain himself – Noam takes a step back before he can, hitting the wood behind him with a dull _thud._ It’s an incriminating noise. The drow clenches his eyes shut, fingers curling more tightly around the silver – he wonders wildly if it’ll scar.

Burning skin has a distinct smell, Shirin knows, and the scent gives him the courage to bridge the gap between them to rest one hand on Noam’s chest. The other slips around him to pinch the skin on his forearm.

“Let go of those,” he orders, softly adding, “ _please.”_

Clink, clink, clink. The bullets drop one by one from aching digits, each one a beat for Shirin to strategize to – that is, if the damage hasn’t already been done.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Noam assures him, not at all reassuringly. Shirin sighs at him.

When the doctor is sure Noam’s hands are empty, he draws them to the space between them, assessing the damage. The angry dark splotches and sizzling puckered skin nearly has him reprimanding Noam; he would have under any other circumstances. Instead, he shoots the drow a disbelieving glance and pulls him with him, past the discarded pots and brushes, into the room where he keeps his medical supplies.

It’s changed since Noam rolled through Shirin’s window that fateful night. It’s still messy, barely navigable and littered with bits and bobs the doctor has mentally labeled ‘to finish’ – but the chair in the center now has a wide berth and the northern wall is positively bursting with colour. Up close, it looks a mess. Pretty, but nothing compared to the view from across the room: impressions of the city, the lab, the weather, inventions and experiments.

_… And the cat,_ Shirin notices with an inward sneer. It’s worth it, though.

He sets a nervous Noam down on the hospital seat.

“You know why I have those bullets, right?” Shirin asks, neatly cutting a swath of cotton into little balls.

“Yeah…” Noam mumbles, not looking at him, “Yeah, of course. It’s fine- good!”

Noam doesn’t react when Shirin presses the cotton, dipped in alcohol, to his palm. He’s looking more and more embarrassed for his reaction to something really _expected_. Or maybe it’s the way Shirin is touching his hands, his closeness. The drow shakes the notion off and continues:

“I put you in danger. You should be able to defend yourself.”

Shirin catches himself pressing the swab down perhaps a tad too harshly. He’s frustrated with Noam’s lack of reaction to it, with the ease he condemns himself with, with the whole thing – he’d honestly forgotten he even _had_ those bullets, let alone planned to ever use them!

“That’s _not_ -“

He restrains himself. Noam’s impatience has him dipping down to catch Shirin’s gaze through his bangs.

“Doctor?” he prompts.

Shirin huffs, the proximity ruffling Noam’s hair and making him blink – which is for the best, because those eyes are just too distracting. He has to make sure he gets the point across.

“Those bullets have been in that drawer since before I met you, Noam,” he says, tying a neat knot in the bandage he’s been wrapping.

“I knew about werewolves,” Noam flinches, but Shirin catches his uninjured hand, “before I met you, as well. That’s why I bought them, for _general_ protection.” He can’t help but place his other hand on Noam’s cheek when he finishes his sentence, inching closer.

“Do you understand? I’m not afraid of _you_ ,” he taps his cheek with a slender finger. Noam looks like he’s about to protest.

“I’m not afraid of you, but I _am_ taking precautions,” Shirin interrupts, “Not doing that would be silly, which I’m obviously not.”

Noam’s lips quirk at that. He seems calmer, their hands twined together and Shirin between his knees, close enough to kiss.

“No, not _silly,_ ” Noam agrees softly. He was still slightly embarrassed for his abrupt reaction, a reaction to something he’d on occasion even hoped Shirin had done. Now that he couldn’t see the accusing blisters on his hands anymore, he allowed that knowing there was silver in the lab might even bring him some peace of mind. It was just a reflex, Noam decides. A knee-jerk response that triggered his sense of self-preservation. What might have seemed a pang of hurt was really one of panic. That made sense.

When Shirin steps away, Noam feels the loss of warmth a bit too keenly. He almost chases, _almost._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written by mel, edited by hester

“I mean really, it’s not like I _disagree_ with what she’s saying,” Shirin proclaimed, probably a little louder than necessary, “It’s the _way_ she wants to go about it.”

He pushed the needle into Noam’s arm as he spoke. It was becoming habit to speak about anything and everything as he tested each new serum on the drow – it was originally for Noam’s benefit, to calm the nerves that always inevitably built before transforming. Nowadays, it was more to calm his own nerves – the experiments were getting harsher, more dangerous… and the thought of anything happening to Noam now filled him with a dark dread. He’d suggest dropping the experiments if he didn’t know Noam would refuse.

Well, that and the fact that he’d never see him again if he _didn’t_ refuse.

He pushed the thought back with a shake of his head and kept talking, “You can change things by _talking_ to people, the nobility aren’t all money-shitting demons… they _can_ be reasoned with. You can’t just go blowing things up because you don’t like something.”

Noam’s nose was wrinkled petulantly, fingers gripping the edges of the table he sat on, “Hetty isn’t nobility, though. She wouldn’t get the same treatment you do.”

Shirin frowned, picking up the second serum and holding it up to the light for a second – quadruple-checking it by this point, he was sure – and then spinning it briefly between his fingers, “I mean, she hasn’t really _tried…_ You never know how they’ll respond to her.”

Noam shrugged, expression becoming surprisingly bitter, “Neither will you. They behave differently if you’re around.”

“I suppose I never thought of that…”

It took Shirin a moment to notice that he had simply been staring at the floor, lost in thought. He glanced up at Noam, who was watching the needle in his hand expectantly. Shirin sighed.

“Okay, this is going to simulate panic, remember?”

Noam nodded, eyes never leaving the syringe.

Shirin bit his lip, “It’s not going to be pleasant.”

“I know, doctor. We have to.” His rueful smile pulled at Shirin’s heart.

“Not ness-” Shirin bit back the rest of the retort, waving his hand dismissively. He’d had this argument too many times before, “Okay, are you ready?”

Noam nodded, expression suddenly focused. Shirin grimaced before finally injecting the serum.

The effect wasn’t immediate, of course – it gave just enough time for Shirin to take a few steps back and for Noam to transform with eyes screwed shut, expression twisted in pain… but it took effect not long after.

Noam’s pupils blew. He whimpered and cowered back from Shirin, a hulking figure of black fur baring huge, fearsome teeth… but it was still Noam. The eyes were the same.

Shirin let him limp away from him, waiting for his back legs to hit the wall and for him to jump and turn, the usual deep growl in his throat. The transformation made Noam jumpy, and Shirin knew he would be particularly bad with the serum he’d injected in him. He’d calm down, though. He always calmed down.

The door flew open.

“I’ve found-”

The reaction was instantaneous. Noam had been staring at him, wide, wild eyes finally relaxing - but the second the door opened he whipped around, surging forward to place himself between Shirin and the stranger. The tray Hetty was holding clattered to the floor. Noam lunged.

Hetty didn’t stand a chance. She dropped like a sack of bricks under Noam’s weight, crashing to the floor amid ear-splitting screams and deep, guttural snarls.

_“Noam!”_

The hulking figure atop Hetty paused – but didn’t move off of her, that low growl ever-present in the back of his throat, head cocked slightly back towards Shirin but… the eye he could see looked more beast than man.

“Noam, I need you to step back from her, okay? S-S-She isn’t going to hurt you…”

Shirin’s mind was fuzzy with panic, hands shaking as his feet couldn’t decide whether to back away or run towards them, afraid of making any sudden movements. The longer he left it the louder Noam growled, bared teeth inching towards Hetty’s throat, making the panic seizing in Shirin’s chest even wilder–

_The gun._

His shaking fingers grasped at the desk drawer behind him, wincing at the tinkling sound the bullets made as he fumbled them into the small pistol he _hated…_

_‘You can’t shoot him! You can’t!’_

He might not have a _choice!_

He still hadn’t moved.

“N-Noam, I n-n- _need_ you to move away from her…”

Miraculously, he obeyed. Noam’s back feet inched back, the paw at Hetty’s throat releasing its pressure slightly, allowing her to suck in a strangled breath.

Then Shirin dropped a bullet.

It dropped to the tiled floor with a small _tinkle_ that felt to Shirin like a grandfather clock hitting the ground. Noam immediately tensed at the noise, a snarl abruptly ripping through bared teeth – and Hetty _screamed._

Noam lunged for her throat.

Shirin pulled the trigger.

The sound was horrendous. It was a shrill _crack_ that echoed throughout the lab, the pistol jolting Shirin’s hand back painfully. The shriek Noam let out when the bullet hit was more drow than werewolf and Shirin felt his heart drop into his stomach as Noam transformed back.

His body hit the floor, boneless and limp. He was curled up, frail. Shirin stared.

“Shirin – what – what the _hell_ is going on-”

Hetty’s voice made him tear his gaze away from Noam, bloodied scratches on her neck making him start towards her but – she was fine, teary and breathing hard but walking and focused. He changed course to Noam immediately, dropping to his knees next to him, trembling hands going to his chest and pressing his ear to Noam’s slack jaw.

_Breath._ He was still alive. Shirin blinked back the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. 

He swallowed at the blood he felt pooling around his knees.

He gestured to the box that held his medical supplies, fixing eyes with Hetty for only a moment before he turned back to Noam, looking for the wound.

“Help me,” he pleaded, voice thick.


End file.
